


scar tissue

by closet_monster



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Angst, Caring, F/M, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Psychological Trauma, Recovery, Sexual Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-04
Updated: 2020-06-04
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:20:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24531433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/closet_monster/pseuds/closet_monster
Summary: On the first time they have sex, they don't have sex at all.
Relationships: Nesta Archeron/Cassian
Comments: 7
Kudos: 107





	scar tissue

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! I had this prompt in my head for a while and decided to give it a try. To exercise writing is never too much.  
> Thoughts: Nesta never had any positive experiences regarding sex, so I thought it would make sense if she ended up struggling a little with it.  
> In honesty I just wanted to write some nice filthy smut, but fuck angst just comes so naturally.  
> This could be seen as a continuation for ·blood bath·, if you wish. If not, see it as a single, innocent oneshot.  
> Kisses and stay safe!

Tempest tastes like brown sugar and chlorophyll, her harsh winds but a gentle zephyr caressing his face.

It's what Cassian finds the first time he kisses Nesta. _Really_ kisses. With no fear of dooming, upcoming death; no rush-induced lip crashing, furious and punishing. Though it's not the first time their lips touch; it's not the first time her body is pressed against his; hell, it's not a first anything. And still, Cassian knows that he had never truly done it before.

There's a white tremor to his very bones when he lightly places two fingers over her cheek, moving them slowly to cradle her face - tremors cut through Nesta's body as if spears of ice had been impaled on her spine.

Their kiss is not a kiss when it starts.

Their foreheads touch - and they share thought. It's a clear, pure, raw, unquestionable cry for each other. Longing hurts and it claws at their flesh like a famished lioness. Talons digging so deep, it catches the ether of their souls, entangling with the strings linking them together. It's a tug. A heartbreaking sensation that feels both like a torturous open wound and a soothing caress.

It had happened times enough. Still, every single time it happened, they both shook their heads and spent days telling themselves that it had been nothing but a ghostly impression, much like phantom pain. It was their wild imagination, using their loving ache to play tricks on their minds - but neither denied the veracity of the feeling when they shared thought; when they were one. Not a single wall in between them, minds merged together like one, true soul.

Cassian's free hand finds it's way to Nesta's neck and she places hers around his wrists, feeling the blood rushing through his veins like a mad river after a thunderstorm. He is undoubtedly alive, though from the way his heart aches and the rest of the world seems to fade around their bodies, maybe he won't stay like that for long.

He moves a little, feeling her scalp; he presses his cheek to hers. They breath together.

Though observant and fairly wise, Nesta is young and almost blind to the truth of the fae. She can't possibly wrap her mind around the severity of what a bond is. She was but a human woman, suddenly thrust into this body and world where mates seemed to fall around her left and right.

Cassian was old. Nearly six centuries of existence, he knew people lived and died over millenia without as much as believing in mates, much less finding theirs. People who couldn't possibly dream of a celestial connection so true, it reverberated within their bodies, minds, magic and soul. Something so strong, it could be seen and scented. Cassian couldn't believe that he had been granted the honor to find his - in a human woman who was so dangerously close of slipping through his fingers.

His mate. Born in a weak inoffensive body likely to die within thirty more years, had she not endured the torture and violation of being dragged out of her home and pushed inside the cauldron that seeped life into the world.

The god of the gods - Nesta was it's creation.

Or she had created herself, in a way.

Still, she kept slipping: his mate, she kept flirting with death, who was so enamoured with her breathtaking grey eyes as he was. It kept tugging at her fingertips, obstinate, while he fought to hold her down on the other side.

Cassian would never let her go - because he had done it already. Let her go and gave up on her way more times than what it should ever be acceptable, and it was never right. It never worked. So, he would never do it again. Nesta, his mate, would stay right there in between his arms and he would put up a fight through the rest of eternity if it meant a chance at keeping things that way. 

He brushes his lips against hers, softly, trying. It's a good feeling and his chest swells the longer he does it for. It's a soothing caress for the two of them.

Nesta presses forward lightly, searching for her kiss.

The last time it happened, it had been furious. It was painful and bruising. They had kissed each other simply to prove they could and that it meant nothing; their ugly feelings getting caught in the action. Cassian had kissed her like a punishment; he wanted to make her suffer and to force her into submission; to try and teach her a lesson with his lips, to storm out his frustration and coerce a reaction out of her. Nesta had kissed him to show that she wasn't affected, that her fury could match his own, that her feelings were hers and he had no claim over them; over her body either.

Though when it was his body against hers and nothing but, when her wit and sharp words had no use, she lost. Nesta was easily physically overpowered and that was a battle she lost and hardly even had a chance of standing her ground. He won.

Cassian punished her with a furious kiss that shattered her heart harder than what it had done to her lips.

It was much like a loss, in a way.

That hadn't been a kiss - it had been a battle and a punishment.

This - 

The way her lips move on his, gentle, loving; this is a kiss. How his heart jumps with every second, how the warmth on his chest quickly spreads to the rest of his body and he thinks _"I could die like this",_ because the feeling is addictive and he wants to keep going. Cassian wants to test how far they can go like this; he wants to make her feel good and to explore her body, this kiss, because it feels so much better when they're not trying to hurt each other.

It doesn't stop until they need to breathe and _fuck,_ Cassian finds out that tempest tastes like brown sugar and chlorophyll. There's a wide sky of heavy clouds reflected on her eyes, beautiful lightening snapping within her irises. Her breath, like the air currents he uses to fly north and come home. His storm. 

And he needs her.

It's an unconditional feeling. He needs her with his heart, with his mind, with his soul; he needs her with his body. He needs her close and he needs her closer; he needs her right there in between his arms and he will never let go.

Until he experienced it himself, Cassian couldn't even begin to imagine how intense his need for her would be - and how possessive he could get. Cassian caught himself acting like a dog, tucking his prey in between his teeth and snarling at the mere idea of someone possibly taking her away. Or that she would go - and he wasn't capable of letting that happen. It would never. He couldn't imagine an alternative future in which Nesta was not there; she was his.

He wanted the witch flushed against his chest for the rest of eternity. Wanted to feel her heat and her pulse and her breathing. To inhale her scent at all times; to have his head buried in her neck, her breasts, her hair, _fuck,_ right in between her legs. He wanted to eat her: Cassian wanted to make her whimper and scream and cry for his name, wanted to honor her body and make her come; wanted it to be so good, she would be ruined.

It never once crossed his mind that she might have wanted - needed him just the same. Probably because he thought so low of himself; but again, so did she. Nesta had never seen kind. Never seen gentle, passionate, loving. She was never shown love and caress. In the past, the others never wanted her for anything more than release, hot and desperate; drunk. She was used like a soulless tool, deemed as unlovable as a beast. She was never kissed; her mouth was occasionally taken while a fearless stranger fucked her, but it was never a kiss.

Not in the way romance made it to be: a caress that felt right and good, sometimes gentle, sometimes passionate, sometimes relentless.

Though she had burned her way through countless romance novels, though she had seen beautiful love stories unravel right before her eyes, that kind of affection had always seemed too far from her reality.

Who would ever feel anything good for her? Who would ever care enough to be gentle? And for fucks sake, why?

That, she couldn't forget.

It was never a secret how easily Cassian could pick her apart from her fortress. He had always seen her; done it so naturally, it was terrifying. Cassian who, for some reason, didn't despise Nesta as thoroughly as she believed to deserve. He came close to her; everyone else seemed too repulsed to do so. He touched her gently, a soothing caress heavy with much more love and concern than what she had ever dreamed to be shown. His kiss; his kiss made her chest ache with a beautiful pain she had never felt before.

This was a kiss. This was real. Good.

"I need you." He rasped out, breathless, hoping for dear life that she wouldn't turn away. "I need you", Cassian repeated, the truest thing he had ever said. Praying for a chance of being needed just the same. Praying to every one of their dead gods that Nesta would stay, that she would love him, that she would want and need him. That she suffered for his love as hardly as he did for hers.

Though it escaped his knowledge, Cassian was Nesta's anchor to this world. Her reason to fight; the one reason why she was still standing and making an effort to get better. As things were, the illyrian was much like her oxygen; her blood; her drive. Her _one_ lifeline. The only thing left in the world - and still, one thing that was good enough.

Nesta was alive.

It had been her effort, her blood and pain, her suffering. Nesta made herself a strong female. She worked long and hard for it, pushed through things that seemed immovable. She had been beaten up and cornered in muddy rinks, had nailed tents to the ground as storms threatened to blow them away, had stitched strangers over panes of blood soaked canvas; had trained hard for every single one of her muscles and moves, in forced abstinence.

How long had it been since Nesta had stopped being _Velaris' whore_ and became the _mountain's witch?_

They had been there for long. They both pretended not to notice, but it was long: over a year, a year and a half. Days blended together until she no longer cared about her pain, until she forced herself through hurt; until Nesta found herself mixing herbs in their kitchen to help fix his wounds. Until she made a habit of fixing him baths, stealing his jackets, sitting together in the couch, feet touching under the covers. Until Cassian was such a fundamental part of her life, her chest tightened whenever he left and didn't spend the night - which happened so, so frequently.

And in some secret, fundamental way, it was all because of him.

Nesta loved him in ways that could not be described, could not be believed. The kind, brave, stupid, selfless illyrian bastard, half bat and half man. He made her feel so strongly alive, everything else seemed like death.

Her mother's corpse would be turning inside her grave, dusty bones hugged by a beautiful blue gown their father had chosen for the burial. Their father - the old man would have liked Cassian, she thinks. Hell, he even would have loved Elain's sorry excuse of a mate, wherever he was.

She has no idea. She didn't ask; never did and never would. She never asked about them.

Cassian could never tell if it was resentment, heavy in her heart, or if she simply didn't care. Over a year and Nesta had moved on with her life like the people left in Velaris never existed. She had made a family of her own in the mountains: in some of her colleagues, some of their healers, a couple of matriarchs. The girls she fought alongside; some of their parents liked her as though she was their own. Some kids liked her: the brave ones, unafraid of the witch. She tried to teach those, with the little she had in hand.

Over a year - and six illyrian children, ages ranging from 8 to 13, had learned how to read.

Cassian doesn't know how to phrase his love either. He doesn't know how to name the feeling that overtakes his body and soul as he watches those little things unravel before his eyes. Doesn't know how to thank and show gratitude for her concern, her company, her effort. For taking care of him, taking care of his people. He doesn't know how to express how much their domesticity means to him. How much he loves to talk: to hear her voice and her ideas and her sarcasm, _fuck,_ he had missed that fire. 

Those things he can't say, those words he had never known; are completely needless when they kiss. The simple, gentle gesture is telling enough. It breaks them both from inside out, except it doesn't hurt. Somehow, the breaking makes them stronger - and they're one.

One shared look, eyes heavy with emotion, and they kiss again.

It goes on until their bodies are too hot to hold the slow rhythm, until it escalates and becomes needy, eager, passionate. Nesta is pressed against the kitchen table - they kiss until she's sitting on top of it, Cassian expertly positioned in between her legs, a curious hand lazily moving up and down her bare thigh. The silvery nightgown had been pushed up and up and up every time he brushed her skin, feeling the soft hairs against his palm.

Cassian could smell her arousal; _hell,_ she could feel his.

And she was nervous.

Over a year and Nesta hadn't taken anyone to bed; hadn't even considered it. She hadn't been aroused at all, never even tried to touch herself for release. It all felt wrong.

Nesta felt dirty.

With the alcohol gone, with her mind clear, her blood pure and body healed, she became hyper aware of the things that she had made of her body. The things she had done and let others do and the fact that everyone else knew. Nesta felt dirty not because she had fucked a legion, but because everyone knew - and they all looked at her like she was nothing besides a desperate whore. A shallow body, empty minded, reduced to nothing but a tool for the mad males of Velaris.

Shame.

There was so much shame heaving on her shoulders - and reflecting on everyone else's eyes.

Her body was pristine - it was as clean as it could possibly be. Though she still had a hard time enduring a bath, paranoia had her scrubbing her skin red at least twice a day, desperately trying to make it clean; to feel clean. Because Nesta felt filthy. She was certain that everyone else thought just the same; some of them really did. Maybe _that,_ maybe those looks were the thing that made her feel that way. The looks she still endured and the looks she could only remember - from someone's long lost family, staring her down and loudly thinking _"filthy whore, filthy whore, filthy whore"._ Squinted eyes and noses turned, disgust and disdain printed in beautiful faces she was told time and time again to trust, respect and love.

Nesta was terrified of sex because experience had only told her that it was a bad thing. It made her empty, made her a tool, made her filthy. Made her worthless. Repulsive. Drove people away.

Sex made them stare her down like she was nothing.

Even now - now, she's a strong female. She's whole and she's sane. She feels loved and appreciated, she loves and appreciates. She has a home and a community to look after; she has a handful of obligations, chores and jobs. Hell, Cassian is even trying to talk her into taking a whole class of children to teach - and _hell,_ she really wants to take it. She feels alive, grown, responsible, fine. Nesta feels like she once again has freedom and reign over her life; and still, she thinks too low of herself. Still, she feels dirty and she's terrified that sex, the big bad sex, will take away all of her hard work.

It's what they had done to her.

Cassian doesn't realize, because the idea of Nesta being - or believing herself to be - anything besides powerful and good seems laughable.

But Cassian _did_ realize the way his family sized her down, their judgemental looks and condescending tones. The way everyone still had the nerve to say something about her, even though she was nestled all the way across the court, quietly living in the Illyrian mountains and minding her business. For them, she was hardly anything besides _Velaris' whore,_ a ghostly reflection of herself that no longer existed; they didn't know about the witch of the mountains. Strong, beautiful, compassionate and devoted. Their minds didn't seem capable of understanding that she might have grown.

The pristine, untouchable Court of Dreams could not imagine a world in which people were capable of overcoming their issues.

After centuries of dwelling and lying in a pool of their own pathetic misery, crying over the same old bruises, the idea of healing, growing and conquering was too advanced for most of them. They were perfect - their occasional flaws were excused as a necessary effort to be pardoned.

Hypocritical as fuck.

The disrespect made Cassian keep a longer distance; made him stay home for longer days, weeks, months. Made him refuse to stay during the night, to fly back to the mountains even when it rained and the wind roared against his ears dangerously. He wasn't scared of storms, anyway, never had been.

Storm, tempest, were a part of him. Storm, tempest, was his mate. 

Nesta retreated when his hand rose too high; too dangerous. As badly as her body pleaded for the touch, as hot and wet as she felt, flesh aching bright; it had been over a year and she was a different female entirely. She was terrified. Ashamed. Some obscure, loud part of her brain flashed right before her eyes as a warning: if he got too close, if he saw too much, Cassian would see how filthy she was. Too many males had done way too many things to her; she was ruined. And maybe, he could still find proof of it on her body, despite how hard she had tried to make herself clean. Why would he still want _that?_ A disgusting body used over and over again by countless strangers - she was terrified. He could see everything wrong with her and he would be repulsed; he would, once again, leave.

Cassian understood, then.

He knew shame and he knew the crushing feeling of inadequacy.

The illyrian bastard had been molded around his worthlessness, lack of possession or being. For years and so on, Cassian was nothing besides a body and a name; the ones around him always made a great deal of pointing it out. Even now, a general commander bearing seven siphons, called and prayed upon like a god, powerful and dauntless, there were days when he woke up feeling like an animalistic piece of nothing. Days he woke up with his chest split open, survival instincts urging to fight; days where people still called him a worthless bastard.

And they always truly meant it.

But there was love.

For her, nothing but respect and love. Cassian saw her, always had. Before his eyes, he couldn't see or feel any of the untrue things she believed herself to be. For her, he had respect and love; for her, he didn't mind a lifetime of fighting to prove her insecurities wrong. Like she so often did for him.

"And I love you." He repeated, cupping her face and staring into her eyes with a split soul.

_I need you and I love you._

"I did…"

"It doesn't matter." Cassian shook his head, thumbs caressing her cheeks. "Don't let your mind trick you into hating yourself."

Unlike he often did. The saying was meant for them both; it was a good thing he said it out loud. Nesta would remember it, and the words would eventually be muttered right back to him.

"I love you." There were tears in her eyes, and they fell right into his hands. "I love you", and it was the truest thing she had ever said.

Nesta was above all else stubborn and obstinate; she was a survivor and she was free. Pushing against fear and making it her bitch was one of her main specialties. Cassian _would_ touch her and he _would_ love her. Nesta would let it happen and that moment would belong to her, because that's what a free woman did: she owned herself. She would feel good because she was needed and loved by someone who would never use her.

And it sure as hell would not happen in the fucking kitchen table.

Though, to be fair, it was more Cassian's decision than hers. They kissed gentle and slow again, until that familiar fire burned once more and Cassian picked her up from the table, guiding them both to his bedroom.

The general commander would let her know exactly how he felt. He would honor his mate and take everything his body pleaded to. He would find the core of that scent and would feed off her until she cried and he felt sated. Cassian wanted to make a point, to show Nesta how badly she was loved, how much she was appreciated, how she was his one true need.

Cassian laid her down and he wanted to undress Nesta off her fear and shame; to prove she had no reason to be poisoned by any of those ugly feelings.

Under his eyes, she was perfect. She was perfect, and she was loved.

Both sitting on the bed, Cassian undressed first, doing it purposefully so that in making himself vulnerable, she'd feel more comfortable to become. Though he could be found bare chested around the house almost everyday, the plan did work. Nesta wasn't nervous at all when he pulled off her nightgown, slowly, both intimate and sensual. She felt beautiful when he looked down, both from his hungry eyes but also because - well, wasn't she beautiful? Her breasts were nice, weren't they? More often than not she'd find a way to think there was something wrong with her body, but right then, she felt beautiful. Perfect.

His hot palm rode up from her waist to cup one of her breasts, thumb slowly playing with her hardened nipple. The way his harsh print brushed against the sensitive tissue made something tighten inside of her.

Nesta could be shaking, she thinks. Maybe she is.

She gets a little tense when his hand comes for the waistband of her underwear. It's almost inevitable how some of her muscles flex, how she holds her breath for a second. Maybe it's a survival instinct, maybe it's nothing but fear. An unconscious reflex that makes her close her legs harder, but not in a nice way (though the pressure is welcome).

The reaction doesn't escape his perception.

"We don't have to do anything." Cassian assures her, soft eyes bearing nothing besides loving concern. His hand goes to the mattress. "I'm happy to kiss you."

Cassian means his words, and something about it makes her body melt again.

They don't _have_ to do anything; but hell, she wants to. And he wants to as well, which makes things to her body. In what, fifteen, thirty minutes of kissing and Nesta feels as if she had been lit on fire. Her core aches and calls for attention, for pressure, for release; everywhere his hand touches her feels amazing.

Maybe they shouldn't. Maybe they could take things slow; maybe they could kiss themselves to sleep and keep the dynamic going until sex came to them both naturally.

But Nesta knew herself, she knew life. She knew how fast the world turned and things changed; she wanted to take things slow, but she didn't trust destiny to grant her a second chance in the future. She would take this moment and it would be unquestionably good; because it was too perfect to be true, too perfect to happen for a second time. They were already here: hell, Cassian sat fully naked in front of her and his hard cock was a sight to see. He made her mouth water and _that_ was something new. He was ready for her, so ready.

If not now, when?

She was terrified of waiting. Of losing a perfectly good chance at whatever it was that they were doing. It was probably the wrong choice to make. Cassian was a good male: he was loving, understanding, kind. She trusted him to wait, to stay. He would; that's exactly what he had just promised.

But she didn't trust life, destiny or fate. It fucked her over way too many times to let the guard down now.

She'd give it a try.

"No. I want to." Nesta took his hand back to her waistband, her own shaking. "Just… Slow."

Cassian wasn't so convinced.

"We don't have to. It's fine, sweetheart." Gently touching her hair, he leaned in to kiss her forehead. Beginning to frown. "We have time."

He could theorize about a dozen reasons as to why Nesta was both scared and insistent to go on, and he didn't like any of them. From what he could remember, she hadn't had the happiest, healthiest relationship with sex. Bad experiences, ever since she was a human woman. Drunk, shallow experiences with strangers from dirty taverns. Cassian wouldn't be surprised to know she hadn't gotten much pleasure from them; or that she hadn't been conscious through most of it. There was absolutely no way that she could possibly associate sex to something positive - for fucks sake, the fear was showing on her body. And still, she wanted to push. Why? Did she feel like she owed him something?

"It's alright, we're fine. You're not comfortable, that's ok. It happens." He moved on to kiss her temple, a soothing caress to her scalp. "I told you we have time. We're not having sex tonight."

And that was a final word.

She couldn't hurt herself if he didn't engage. And he would not hurt her.

Cassian can't even begin to imagine in what ways he'd break if Nesta exhaled fear or pain because of him. Like this, least of all.

He was a decent male. He had morals.

Which Nesta did _not_ understand.

Was she not good enough? He was disappointed; she had failed him. Again. How come when it actually mattered, with someone she truly loved, her body had to freeze? And now he didn't want her anymore. Gods. How long until something else happened and they once again lost their way?

Nesta hadn't realized how badly she had started to shake until she was pressed against his chest; Cassian held tight. His copper skin was wet, the black ink of his tattoos gleaming with tears, because she was _crying._ Nesta couldn't realize most of it because the only thing she could feel was the way her throat closed and her chest ached as she tried so hard to breathe.

What was that?

She could feel Cassian. Around her, tight, constant. He kept muttering things to her, but she couldn't understand half of it - though her ears did pick up the word "sweetheart" twice. He stayed; why had he? But he stayed, somehow, he wasn't angry. Cassian was there for her. Nesta could feel him gently tapping at the walls of her mind and though it took some effort, she kicked her walls down to let him in. She could feel his mind softly curling around hers, how they merged together. He touched her anxiety and layered it with his calm until it eased. It didn't take long for the panic to fade, but it took long enough.

By the time she eased back inside her skin, any sexual desire they both had was long lost and forgotten. Maybe the situation was a lot more complex than what she had tried to make it out to be.

Nesta tried to apologize, incoherent words still strange in her lips, but he refused.

Cassian kissed her hair over and over again, hands with soothing caress as his arms were curled around her protectively. She didn't debate when he laid them both down on their side, with her body safely tucked against his. He brought a massive wing over them, his favorite thing to do, and his heart swelled with the way she eyed them. He was proud of his wings; ridiculously happy that they made her feel safe.

"I'm sorry." She whispered with eyes closed, pressing her face closer to his neck.

"No, sweetheart. There's nothing to be sorry for. I told you we're fine." Cassian assured again, angling his head to kiss her forehead. "We're fine. We have time. We're not going anywhere."

They weren't. He wasn't lying. With Cassian's mind fused to hers, she knew there was no lie in his words. They had time. Their time was so infinite, it's promised to stretch into another world.

Nesta detangles herself a little, moving up to kiss him. Gently. There's love. Cassian answer in kind, there's love.

She lies back down in his embrace and sleep feels like a happy ending when it comes.

**Author's Note:**

> That was all! Hope it was nice and you liked it! Feel free to share any thoughts or make an observation!


End file.
